Prompt 9 - carve
He still remembered the sound of her voice, the way she whimpered, cried and begged for mercy, the way she screamed when Bellatrix held her down and used her knife to carve the word "mudblood" in her flesh.
It wasn't the first time Scabior had seen Bellatrix use her knife to make her mark on her victims. She delighted in all forms of torture, anything that would leave lasting mental and physical scars. There was a time when one of her victims was found bound and gagged in Diagon Alley, naked as the day he was born, with Bellatrix's name carved into his chest. He'd been lying there in the dumpster for several hours before anyone found him.
Scabior looked down at the faded scars on the back of his left hand, the steam from the hot shower helping to blur the letters on his hand. One by one the drops of water trickled over his nude form. He was just as bare, just as vulnerable as he'd been then. And even though the water was warm, he couldn't help but shiver, a chill running down the length of his spine as he remembered what she'd done.
The water soothed his tired, aching muscles after a long day's work, but it couldn't ease his mind the way it eased his body. It couldn't wash away the memories, couldn't drown the pain he'd felt then. He still remembered it as though it were yesterday.
She'd held him prisoner, beating him, torturing him, treating him like he was just another plaything, another one of her toys whose life had no value whatsoever. She kept him chained up in the cellar, lying there naked alone, until one day blended into the next and he lost track of time. Some nights he awoke screaming, other nights he couldn't sleep at all. And he was always cold, always in pain, lying there on the floor in a pool of his own blood.
No one escaped Bellatrix's wrath when she decided she wanted a new plaything. And as he lay on the cold, damp, musty floor, Scabior could feel the warm blood slowly oozing down his wrist and across his fingers, the wound still fresh and stinging with intense, burning pain.
His body was her canvas, with bruises blossoming across his chest like blackened flowers upon a bed of broken earth. He was sure his ribs were broken, for he could hardly breathe without feeling a sharp, piercing pain stab him in the chest. His breathing was shallow and labored, and he feared that if he breathed too deeply he would puncture one of his lungs with the shards of his shattered ribs.
Deep gashes ran in snaking trails along his legs, back and thighs, but worst of all were the bloody letters carved into the back of hand where she had spelled out the word "mine."
